


here lies the abyss; or, leftovers

by fracturedvaels



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, hawke's death, post-Inquisition, sebhawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 07:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4598553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fracturedvaels/pseuds/fracturedvaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d save it, for when Brother came home to him. He’d come back. Carver was sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	here lies the abyss; or, leftovers

Carver finds a bottle of vintage Orlesian white wine in the cellars. They’ve been picked clean by trophy hunters and looters looking to grab a piece of Hawke history, but this one rolled under the barrel that couldn’t be moved. He dusts the label off and sits down, thumb brushing over the top of it.

There’s the urge to open it, to take a deep sip. He remembers being 13 and Brother sneaking him a few sips of his; he remembers the taste of it and the burn and how it became a thing for them every Satinalia to find a bottle and share it. Brother once confessed he would burn every cask of Starkhaven whiskey in existence for a taste of Halamshiral chardonnay.

Carver wonders if he ever had any other bottles, if he ever opened one of them. Maybe on his and Sebastian’s wedding night, because from what Carver hears it was lovely but tame - and Sebastian fell asleep on Hawke’s lap while Hawke drank and played with his hair and read. Was this the stuff they were drinking? He couldn’t see Seb taking even a sip, but Brother was persuasive.

Carver turned the dusty bottle over in his hands a few times, kept thumbing the cork and trying to convince himself to open it. Eventually he sighed, and stood, taking the bottle upstairs with him. He’d save it to celebrate brother’s return, from Adamant. He’d save it for the day he and Sebastian would roll back into town, laughing about how he escaped the Fade, because with Brother it was bound to be a hilarious story.

He’d save it, for when Brother came home to him. He’d come back. Carver was sure.

-

He’s 37. That’s ten years to the day; it was three before his nameday, he remembers, because the letter was dated. _Happy Birthday, Carver Hawke. Your brother is dead._

He writes to Sebastian sometimes. Sebastian will write back. They see each other once a year; not on an anniversary or a nameday, not on a holiday. But the same day every year. There’s a running festival celebrating… something. Something Brother did, Carver doesn’t remember. He keeps all but one door locked, for Sebastian to come into.

He stays for a few hours and they do nothing. Drink wine - never the bottle. _Saving it_ , Carver says. _For a special occasion_ , Sebastian agrees. And they drink red wine and look out the window and fall asleep on each others’ shoulders.

Carver is different now. At his temples, there’s grey; his face hasn’t started to sag, yet, but the lines from wrinkles run deeper than the scars on his cheeks. He’s almost 20 years as a half, and now he’s 10 as a third, and they lie when they say it gets easier. You’ll miss them less, the world tells him. _You won’t remember as clearly_.

But he still can’t eat the soft, jam filled pastries that Aveline brings by. He gives them to people who stop in but he never watches them eat it. He can’t touch the soft cakes that people bring and he hasn’t eaten bread with jelly in years. Red makes his eyes hurt and his chest hurt and his lungs work too hard, and now green does too, and every time he sees a swipe of blood on a book-cover nose and every time he dreams he’s going to be hearing those voices.

People will look at him, and his wine bottles, and how he doesn’t hide that he has to turn away from those bright ever-present colors. The paint on the walls has faded and he throws out every family crest and he burns every scarf and scrap of fabric he can find and when people whisper that _He walks with ghosts, poor little bird_ he bites his tongue and tries not to tell them _he’s not a ghost, he’s coming back, he’s coming back_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> make me write longer oneshots @ http://liviuserimond.tumblr.com/


End file.
